


Fault

by WhimsicalWordWeaver



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Sad, death of unknown patients, good thing house is there, he just needs a friend, poor wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalWordWeaver/pseuds/WhimsicalWordWeaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another patient dies. They all usually do. It was the pain that came with being an oncologist, but what could he do? This was his job, his choice. Just... why did they always have to die?</p>
<p>A short drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fault

It was not his fault.

So why did he feel like shit?

Everything happened the way that it did, and there was nothing that he could have done to prevent it. And he tried. He tried so hard. Every treatment, every chance, he gave to the small, innocent 6-year old girl. Still, every one failed. They all failed, without fail. 

That little girl was dead now.

Just like the 10-year old boy, the 72 year old grandma, and a 32 single dad. All dead, all gone, not his fault.

But he still felt like shit. 

….

That night he did was he always did on days like this. He got out his anti-depression medication and a bottle of beer. He took neither of them. They just sat, unused, in front of him. Taunting him while he wallowed in his thoughts. He did not turn on the TV. He did not turn on the lights.

He just sat.

And sat.

And thought.

Like always. 

What if he did something different? A different rate of chemo? Maybe there were signs that he could have caught earlier? What if they could still be alive?  
And why did the parents and loved ones still feel the need to thank him?

He reacted. He wanted to scream, to cry, but instead he leaned forward to snag the bottle. He brought it up to his lips, but right before he drank a hand grabbed the bottle and gently pulled it down.

House took the bottle from him, with a concerned look, and sat down next to him, keeping the bottle away. House took a swig of it himself. Wilson stared at him and House stared back. 

“Want to talk?”

Wilson scoffed, “Why? So you can make fun of me?”

House took another drink and subtly (not so subtle) pushed the anti-depressants away, “No. Let’s mix it up today. Talk to me.”

Wilson stared at House before nodding. Slowly, he started to speak, and soon it was all rushing out. He was unable to control it anymore. Everything he had been feeling, about everything came pouring out. He tried not to sob, but he probably was anyways. House said nothing the whole time. He just sat there and let Wilson talked. He did not react. Wilson spoke and spoke, and House was just there.

It was more than enough. 

After he was done, he realized that he was leaning against House’s arm. The older man made no move to embrace him, but the fact that he allowed the contact meant the world to Wilson. 

He wiped his eyes and looked up at House. He was not quite good again, but he was better than before, thanks to House. 

“Thank you,” Wilson said, not letting himself move from House’s arm. It was comforting, this. Sometimes he forgot just how… gentle House could be. It was nice; and he was honored that House let him see this, let him experience this. 

House glanced down at him, and turned on the TV, “Feeling better?” He made no move to make Wilson get off his arm. 

Wilson smiled, getting comfortable, “Yea, I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: whimsicalwordweaver.tumblr.com


End file.
